It was a  ragged week of strife

and undercurrents

and hot weather,

building the studio,

long hours in the sun.

Now, resting beside him

hearing the sputter and breath

of a necessary nap.

I lay still

so he will sleep.

Wearing the blue linen shirt,

I bought and wash two times a week

and those grey shorts tied with rope.

Tan tapered legs, one of his best features

like his feet.

I will resist a clever ending to this poem

I’ll just let it go at that.